


The Absence of You

by emn1936



Series: Absence of You [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5280365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emn1936/pseuds/emn1936
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you know what hell is? For me, it was the absence of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Absence of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qqueenofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/gifts).



> Based on spoiler-fueled speculation about the mid-season finale – and anticipated path of 5B. I wanted to get this out in case what actually comes to pass blows the theories upon which this story is based to hell and back. Ha!
> 
> Dedicated to Silverblood aka Queen of Hades aka Hilary. Whose blog I haunt because her words of wisdom and confidence help to keep the ‘ship ship-shape and helps keep a lid on spoiler and spec-fueld panic. And whose stories I absolutely adore. If you haven’t already checked out her, you should: http://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblood; http://qqueenofhades.tumblr.com/

The Absence of You

 

 

 

_He is on his knees, his power temporarily bound by Regina, Merlin and his own love for Emma and the need to protect her. The Darkness rages within him, a snarling, snapping beast, beating against the purple and blue beams of magic engulfing him._

_“I can’t do it.” The other Dark One stands before him, her spine rigid; her expression tortured. One tear –_ Emma _’s tear – tracks over the sharp edge of her porcelain cheekbone. “I won’t!”_

_At the sound of her voice, the Darkness within him surges, calling out to its mate, hissing and screaming for her and Killian bears down until it seems his skull will explode from the pressure._

_“You must.” He raises his face to hers, a supplicant begging for mercy. “I cannot do this. I do not want to_ be _this.”  He squeezes his eyes closed, mentally lashing out at the beast within, subduing it for another moment._

_“Please, Emma. You’re the only one who can spare me.”_

_“I can’t lose you, Killian.”_

_She drops to her knees and reaches toward him but Regina and Merlin anticipate this and widen the field of magic swirling around him and she yanks her hand back, repelled._

_“What would you do, then Emma? All magic comes with a price.  You_ know _this. If you mean to rid the world of the Darkness forever then you must sacrifice something you love. What will it be? Who will it be? Would you sacrifice Henry?”_

_“Of course not!” she rages and the ground quakes with her fury._

_“Then what? If you won’t sacrifice him and you won’t sacrifice me, what is your plan? Would you have us remain as the Dark Ones forever?”_

_“Yes! If that’s what it takes to keep you with me, then, yes!”_

_“Even if it means that we destroy everyone and everything we love in the process? Including ourselves?”_

_“It doesn’t have to be like that,” she protests weakly. “We can fight it. We can control it. I’ll teach you how.”_

_“I can’t. Emma, love. You_ saw _what I did, how I reacted after learning the truth – returning without hesitation to the villain I was –”_

_“But you didn’t go through with it, Killian. You fought it off.”_

_“But don’t you understand? I want it, Emma. It calls to me and even now I can barely resist its lure.”_

_“No…”_

_“Emma. Emma, love. Look at me.”_

_She sees him grit his teeth, sees his jaw tighten as he forces back the beast. Sees the Darkness swirl into his eyes turning them nearly black, before clearing again to the beautiful blue she loves._

_Sees the toll it takes on him._

_“I don’t want this for you, my love. A lifetime of darkness. You are the Savior. You were never meant to walk in the darkness. Only in the light.”_

_She shakes her head in protest._

_“There’s no light in my world without you, Killian.”_

_“And as long as I am the Dark One, there is no light to be found with me. My love, I am not strong enough to fight the Darkness forever. But I do have the strength right now, in this moment, to save you from it. Put what you have become into me. Let me take it from you.”_

_She rocks back and forth on her knees, pressing her fists to her ears like a child who doesn’t want to listen to reason. She resists his pleading words. The Darkness within her is selfish and so is her love for him. They both want him and it is almost impossible to resist their twin pull._

_“Emma!” he calls sharply. “Give it over to me. Let me save you. And then you end it. You save me from this.” His voice changes, goes soft with pleading. “Please, love, I don’t want to be this thing that I have hated for so long.”_

_He looks around, sees the stricken faces of Snow and David; sees Henry clinging to Robin. Sees Merlin and Regina, despair, determination and creeping exhaustion stamped on their faces; knows that they cannot continue to control the clawing beast much longer; and he feels it leap joyfully within him at the knowledge._

_He turns back to the woman he loves._

_“Emma. I’ll love you forever but I need you to do this. For me. Please, love. Release me from this torment.”_

_A sob wells up and erupts from her throat in a howling scream. She covers her face with her hands and rages against the fates. She snarls at the voices of countless Dark Ones hissing in her brain and reaches blindly for the sword etched with her name and that of her true love. Clutching the grip between her hands, she holds it before her like a cross. Touches the flat of the blade to her forehead and then tilts it toward Killian._

_She coughs, gags as the Darkness is torn from her. Her limbs jerk and the pain is overwhelming as if the very skin is being peeled from her body. She sees it flow from her along the length of the blade and pour into Killian like ribbons of black oil. His body arches painfully in response and when he opens his eyes, she can see the battle he is doing to remain in control. His eyes are bloodshot, the mounting pressure causing tiny vessels to burst._

_And then something happens and a beatific expression falls over his face and for a moment he seems almost at peace._

_“Emma,” he sighs. “There you are, my love.”_

_She looks down wildly. Sees herself enrobed in familiar clothes – her jeans; her red leather jacket. Her curls – gold like the sun – tumble about her shoulders._

_She is Emma. Only Emma. The Darkness is gone._

_Then he cries out, clutching his head in pain, thrashing against the magical bonds which imprison him. She knows the Darkness is growing stronger in him, grappling for control, and with a choked cry she rises to her feet, flinging her own magic toward him, helping him to beat it back for another moment._

_“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry. I love you, Killian.”_

_“And I you, my darling.”_

_Her chest is heaving, tears running unchecked down her face and she dashes her forearm across her eyes to clear her vision._

_“I will find you,” she vows. She feels her parents’ hands on her back, risks a glance over her shoulder to see them nod with grim determination._

_“I’ll be waiting.” He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them and throws his arms wide, offering her a reassuring smile._

_“Now, love. End it.”_

_She shifts her grip on the sword and holding his eyes with her own, plunges it into his chest._

_Piercing his heart._

_Shattering hers._

_Destroying the Darkness forever._

0o0o0

 

 

It is not until they have left behind the underworld – that ruined, burned out, disturbingly deceptive façade of their home – and returned to a town that is familiar and whole and safe – that they take a moment to let down their guard.

 

Killian is passed from person to person. Robin’s back-pounding embrace gives way to Regina, whose lips curl in a familiar sneer, but whose dark eyes sparkle with genuine warmth. Belle lays a hand on his arm, her eyes crinkling merrily as he exchanges a cautious nod with Gold. Henry’s embrace is somehow at once both shy and exuberant. David offers a hearty handshake and a grin before stepping aside to make room for his wife.

 

Mary-Margaret hitches the quiver of arrows more comfortably on her shoulder and lays a hand on his cheek.

 

“We should have fought harder to keep you in the first place,” she admits, her eyes soft with apology. “Welcome home, Killian.”

 

And never more than an inch from his side is Emma.

 

“I’d say this calls for a celebration!” 

 

The others laugh, and Emma groans, for no one loves to organize a party more than Mary-Margaret. Her parents lead the way, the rest of the group falling into place behind them.  Emma sends a questioning look toward Killian who is staring pensively about.

 

“What do you think?” she asks. “Are you feeling up to it?” She tips her head toward the rest of the group.

 

He blinks and turns toward her.

 

“Sorry, love.” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “I was distracted for a moment.” His eyes continue to rove over the town as if seeing it for the first time.

 

“I asked if you were up for joining the others at Granny’s. They want to celebrate, but if you’d rather just –”

 

“Aye. Of course.” He plasters a smile on his face.

 

“Killian, you must be exhausted. They would understand if –”

 

“It’s fine, love. It would be churlish of me to turn down their invitation after everything they did to retrieve me.”

 

He takes a step toward the diner, then turns and holds out a hand. “Come along, Swan.” His dimples flash as he smiles at her. “I know you’re dying for a grilled cheese sandwich.”

 

“Okay,” she agrees with a grin. “Maybe a quick bite, but then I’m taking you home.” Clutching his hand in one of hers, she slings his arm over her shoulder and wraps her other around his waist.

 

“Let’s go, pirate. I’ll buy you a drink.”

 

0o0o0

 

 

They sit in a booth across from her parents who are ecstatic to be reunited with their son. Killian sips from his glass of rum and watches Emma play peek-a-boo with the baby who offers a gummy grin in response to his sister’s antics.

 

He runs a hand through his dark hair, surreptitiously rubbing his fingers over the beginnings of a headache pulsing at the base of his skull as the crowd grows louder and more boisterous around him. He slouches, striving for a more comfortable position and Emma presses her cheek against his bicep, smiling at him through her lashes.

 

He longs for quiet and to stretch his aching limbs out on a soft surface, but he sees the joy radiating from Emma’s face and knows he owes at least this one small gesture to the others who risked life and limb to drag him back from hell.

 

And so he stays. And smiles. And nurses his drink.

 

Granny arrives at the table, a tray laden with food expertly braced against her shoulder. She unloads the tray, setting plates onto the table with a clatter and the others eagerly begin to dig into the food. He watches Mary-Margaret shift her son into one arm and raise a forkful of lasagna to her mouth; hears Emma’s quiet moan as she bites into an onion ring. He swallows hard and reaches for a glass of water as the mingled scents assault his nostrils, grimacing when Henry chomps into an enormous cheeseburger, grease and ketchup dripping back onto the plate below.

 

He lifts his own burger to his mouth, but the smell is too much. He swallows hard against the bile which rises in his throat and stumbles to his feet. He hears Emma call his name, is vaguely aware of the concerned gazes thrown his way as he lurches through the crowd toward the back door. He pushes through the door, grateful for the cold air that washes over him upon exiting the overheated diner. 

 

He gags. Braces a hand against the brick exterior of the building and bends at the waist as his stomach – empty for so long now – rebels against the alcohol and the greasy smell of fried foods. He coughs, his throat burning, but does little more than expel bile and a small amount of rum.

 

“Hey.” Emma’s hand settles onto his back and rubs a little circle between his shoulder blades. “Are you alright?”

 

“Apologies, lass.” He swipes an arm over his mouth and presses his forehead against the brick wall, luxuriating in its blessed coolness. “It would seem I am not hungry after all.” He shoots her a sheepish look before dropping his gaze to the ground. “If I haven’t managed to destroy your appetite as well, I beg you to go back inside and finish your meal. I shall remain out here where it’s cool and quiet.”

 

“Emma?”

 

“Bloody hell.” He groans and ducks his head, embarrassment staining his cheeks when he sees Mary-Margaret duck her head through the open door.

 

“I’m taking him home.” He hears the concern in Emma’s voice and wants to protest that he is fine, but in truth he is exhausted and wants little more than to fall into a (hopefully) dreamless sleep.

 

“Of course.”

 

Emma hands him a bottle of water brought out by her mother and as the two women murmur softly to one another, he rinses his mouth and then cautiously sips the rest. Vaguely aware of Emma promising to call her mother later, he closes his eyes tiredly and leans further into the wall.

 

 

0o0o0

 

 

Emma can feel the fine tremors wracking his frame beneath the fingers she has splayed over his back. She considers the distance between the diner and their home and knows he will not make it there on foot.

 

Because of his sacrifice, she is no longer the Dark One. But she _is_ the Savior and still has magic. Wrapping her arms around him, she closes her eyes and thinks of white picket fences and home. She feels the now familiar tingle rise in her belly and spread to the tips of her fingers and toes; feels the dizzying rush as her magic swirls around them in a cloud of white smoke and deposits them on the grass of her home – of _their_ home, she mentally corrects.

 

She braces him when he staggers, off-balance and dazed, and guides him up the stairs to the front porch. She waves a hand with a graceful turn of her wrist and the door swings open to admit them.

 

The late afternoon sun slants through the windows and she watches as he instinctively closes his eyes and tips his face upward. In that moment, he appears to be bathed in sparkling light magic. And though she knows it is merely the sun’s rays illuminating the dust motes dancing through the air, she nonetheless takes comfort in the illusion which reinforces the knowledge that he has been born again, stripped of the darkness she had inflicted upon him in a moment of bleak desperation.

 

Stepping into the sunlight with him, she strokes a thumb over his brow, smiling softly when he closes his eyes and nestles his cheek into the palm of her hand. They wind their arms around each other and take a moment to enjoy the blessed peacefulness – this first opportunity to be alone with the other in so very long. And so they remain, for long moments, swaying together in the golden sun as if to a tune only they can hear.

 

0o0o0

 

“Come on.”

 

Her whisper breaks the hush and she takes a step back. He sees her hold out a hand and lays his own in it, willingly following when she leads him up the stairs to the third floor and into the master bedroom. He glances around but she does not linger long enough for him to appease his curiosity and again he follows as she ushers him into the adjoining room.

 

The bathing chamber is enormous by his standards and his eyes widen as he takes in the deep tub and the tiled shower behind a large plate of glass. 

 

“You have good taste.” He hears her softly chuckled reminder that it was he who had chosen this house for their future.

 

“Aye.” He arches a brow in wonder. “It would appear so.”

 

“A hot shower,” she says firmly. “And then bed.”

 

His eyes widen even more when she reaches down and unceremoniously yanks the white sweater over her head. She bends at the waist to pry the boots from her feet. He blinks when her breasts threaten to tumble from the confines of the miniscule lace corset she wears beneath a thin camisole and he flushes when she looks up through the disheveled mane of her hair and catches him staring.

 

She smiles and takes a step closer to him so that her body brushes against his.

 

“What is it, Killian?”

 

“I… we…” He swallows hard, impotently waving his hook about, flushing at the stammering fool he has become and he sees the humor and understanding reflected in her eyes. He inhales sharply when she lays a hand on his chest and toys with the buttons of his shirt.

 

“We’ve never had the time or the opportunity before,” she says, popping open the first button. “But we’re alone and we’re in our home…” She loosens another button and slides her hand over his hair-roughened chest. “We’re going to make the time.” He hears the vehemence in her tone and presses his lips to her forehead. “But right now we’re both exhausted.”

 

He gazes at her wonderingly as she steps back. “Shower,” she repeats and shimmies black denim down her long legs. “And then a nap.”

 

“And then…?” He sees a relieved spark in her eyes at the familiar impudence coloring his words.

 

She ignores him and strips away her remaining clothes, leaving a trail on the floor for him to follow as she steps through the glass doors.

 

“And then,” she tosses over her shoulder, “then we’ll see.”

 

He stares after her while she bundles her hair atop her head and fiddles with the taps. Raising her face to the warm spray of water, she pours bath gel into a mesh sponge.

 

“You’re still wearing too many clothes, Captain,” she calls idly and slicks the sponge over her arms and torso leaving a trail of sudsy lather in its wake. Enchanted, he cannot help but heed her siren’s call.

 

 

0o0o0

 

 

A smug smile curves her lips when he steps into the shower and she reaches around him to tug the glass door closed, cocooning them in clouds of steam and heat. Blinking against the mist of water beading on her lashes, she clasps a hand around the back of his neck and draws him into a tender kiss. Breaking apart, she lowers her gaze and follows the path of rivulets of water streaming over his shoulders, and her lighthearted mood is shattered when her eyes lock onto the scar centered on his chest.

 

Pink, thick and raised, the flesh puckers above the place where his heart rests and she flinches at the brutal reminder of its origin. A soft moan escapes her throat and her arms sting with the sense memory of the weak resistance offered by flesh and muscle and bone against the piercing thrust of her blade.

 

She staggers and claps a hand over her mouth, gagging against the bile which threatens to rise in her throat.

 

“Don’t love,” he whispers. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

 

“Oh, God. Killian.” Her hand hovers over the ugly mark, fingers trembling, afraid to touch. “Oh my God. Look what I’ve done,” she cries and collapses into him. Hiccupping sobs wrack her slender frame and he pulls her into his comforting embrace, hushing her tears against his chest.

 

“You did what you had to,” he reminds her, pushing down his own horrific memories of that moment. “And here we stand, love, because of you.” He cradles the back of her head in his large palm. “Hush now. All is well.”

 

She nods weakly and struggles to compose herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she presses her lips over his heart in an open-mouthed kiss. Then stepping back, she eschews the mesh sponge and pours a measure of soap directly into her hands, washing away the lingering, acrid scent of brimstone, the grime and sweat of battle and the struggle to free him. She bathes him with soap and water; anoints him with her tears. Digs her fingers into muscles which have been knotted with tension since the moment he had stood by and watched helplessly as she took the Dark One’s dagger into her hands. And when she beckons him to lean down so that she can lather shampoo into his hair, he is docile, his body swaying back and forth sleepily beneath her tender ministrations.

 

She rouses him and hands him a thick towel and they quickly blot themselves dry. Once again, she takes him by the hand and leads him from the steam filled room. She carelessly tosses the damp towels behind her to heap on the bathroom floor while he pulls back the thick comforter atop the bed. Together they slide beneath the covers and immediately curl into one another.

 

At last, they sleep.

 

0o0o0

 

 

He awakens in the predawn hours and blinks to orient himself. He is lying on his stomach in possibly the most comfortable bed in which he has ever slept in all his many years, though he suspects that may have something to do with having Emma curled up behind him. He feels each softly exhaled puff of breath against his shoulder blades and the satiny smoothness of her thigh draped over his hip. Her right arm is curled over him, the open palm of her hand tucked between his chest and the mattress.

 

He is not sure how long he lies drifting contentedly somewhere in that place between sleep and wakefulness, when he feels her begin to stir. Her lips pucker against his skin in a quiet kiss. Her hand twitches against his chest and he has the impression that she’d crush him close if she wasn’t afraid doing so would disturb his sleep.

 

“I’m awake,” he whispers into the dark. He draws her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss into her knuckles. He rolls onto his back and she shifts so that she is now draped over his chest. The tips of her fingers bump lightly over his ribs and her hand comes to rest on the flat plane of his stomach before drifting up to trace the outline of the scar over his heart.

 

He feels the warmth of her touch, stiffens when the warmth changes to an unnatural heat.

 

“Don’t.” He closes his hand over hers.

 

“But I can make it disappear.” She pushes up onto one elbow and stares down into his face. “Why should you live with such an ugly reminder?”

 

“Tis part of my story, love. It’s like the rings.” He reaches up and scrapes her hair away from her face, cupping his palm around her cheek. “It’s my history.”

 

She subsides, laying down and again using him as her pillow. He winnows his fingers through her hair, the rhythmic motion soothing to them both until they are able to push the traumatic memory away again.

 

“Are you hungry?” Her fingers toy with the dark hair which narrows to a thin trail below his navel.

 

“Perhaps,” he shrugs. “But I am reluctant for a repeat of earlier. Bloody mess, that.”

 

Emma rolls to her feet and pads across the room to a tall bureau tucked between two windows. He props himself on one elbow and there’s just enough light from the waning moon or perhaps from the street lamps below, to illuminate her pale skin with an ethereal glow. He sucks in a quiet breath – for a moment reminded of the Dark Swan – but then she looks over her shoulder and smiles.

 

And all he sees is Emma.

 

She tugs open a drawer and begins to rummage through it and he sits up in bed when she tosses a pair of soft flannel sleeping pants – pajamas, he remembers – at him.

 

Curious, he rises and makes his way to her side. She’s stepping into equally soft, floral sprigged pants of her own and is tugging a long-sleeved t-shirt over her head when he begins to poke through the bureau drawers.

 

“What?” she asks as her head pops through the neck hole of her shirt.

 

He silently rifles through a stack of men’s clothing and shoots her a curious look. She twists her hair into a loose ponytail and shrugs self-consciously.

 

“You told me in Camelot that you would never stop fighting for us – wouldn’t stop fighting for the dream that we could have a life together…” Her lips curve in a pensive smile and she lays a hand on the clothes. “I know you didn’t remember saying that once we got back here, but this was my way of joining you in that fight. And these things… I’d come here sometimes and just go through them. They were my talisman that someday we would have this.”

 

Her eyes glitter with unshed tears and he presses his mouth to hers in a fiercely possessive kiss.

 

“Let’s go.” She sniffs and smiles through her tears and he hurriedly steps into his pants and follows her down the stairs.

 

 

0o0o0

 

She directs him to take a seat at the kitchen table, but he chooses instead to lean against the counter while she bustles about the kitchen. She thinks to herself that it would be faster to just use her magic to whip up a breakfast. But though she does not consider herself particularly adept in the kitchen, on this morning, she finds a certain soothing appeal in the ritual of domesticity.

 

And so she fills a kettle with water and sets it on the stove, lighting the flame beneath it. Pulls a carton of eggs, milk and butter from the refrigerator. Puts a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and while the water heats on the stove, she whisks together the eggs with a dollop of milk.

 

“About a year after I arrived here I came down with a stomach bug,” she says, pouring hot water into two mugs.

 

“Bug?”

 

She tosses him a grin and searches for the right word to explain.

 

“Stomach virus.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Anyway, my digestive system was pretty shaky for a day or two after and this was the first thing my mom made for me to eat when I started feeling better.” She turns from the stove and places the food on the table. “Scrambled eggs and hot, sweet tea,” she says with a little flourish of her hands.

 

She is suddenly starving and digs into the fluffy eggs with a gusto at odds with his more cautious approach. He manages only half the eggs, but finishes his toast and tea and even rises to reheat the water for a second cup. The flannel pants hang loose on his frame, riding low on his hips, which she would normally consider to be a turn on if she wasn’t so concerned about how much weight he has lost.

 

The dead don’t eat, she thinks morosely.

 

“Where did you go, love, to put such a look on your face?” He sits down and takes a tentative sip from the steaming mug.

 

“Nowhere.” She shakes her head and smiles brightly, determined not to let morbid thoughts ruin this morning.

 

His gaze searches hers intently and she knows he is reassured when he relaxes back into his chair. They sip their tea in silence, content with this time they have together and the promise of more.  They are both startled when an enormous yawn catches Killian unaware and he scrubs his hands over his face and shoots her a sheepish smile.

 

“My apologies, Swan.” He hides a second, lesser yawn behind his hand and stares at her through watery eyes.

 

“Back to bed for you, captain.” She quickly clears the table, dumping the dishes into the sink for later and they make the ascent back to the third floor. She moves to the windows to draw the curtains closed against the dawning sun, but he stops her.

 

“Leave them, love,” he says. “I think we’ve both had more than our share of the dark.”

 

She climbs into the bed and snuggles down under the covers, rolling onto her side to face him.

 

“Apologies, lass.” He blinks at her through sleep-heavy eyes. “’m so tired,” he slurs. “… can’t seem to keep my eyes open.”

 

She shushes him, strokes her fingers over the dark arch of his brow and down his nose, lulling him further into sleep. And though she is not tired herself, she is content to lie beside him and revel in the fact that he is here – alive and well and at her side.

 

 

0o0o0

 

 

He awakens a few hours later to the muted clicking sounds of Emma tapping a message into her phone. He shifts, pointing his arms and legs in a satisfyingly long stretch and settles on his side to face her.

 

“Your mother?” He juts his chin toward the device in her hands.

 

“Henry.” She taps the keys a few more times, then sets it on the table beside the bed. “He wanted to know how you were.”

 

“When is he coming home?”

 

She absolutely beams at his question and he knows she is delighted by his automatic assumption that her son will be part of their household. 

 

“He did help me choose this house, Swan,” he reminds her wryly, one brow winging up in an emphatic manner that she now recognizes as his way of saying “duh”.

 

“He’s staying with Regina and Robin for a few days.” Her words elicit another arch of his brows, but which this time say entirely something else when he gives them a lasciviously suggestive waggle.

 

“So, if I understand what you’re saying, we have the place to ourselves…?” His fingers toy with the hem of her t-shirt, pushing beneath to stroke feathery patterns over the soft skin of her stomach.

                                                                                                                                   

“That does seem to be the case.” She hums approvingly when he buries his mouth against the column of her throat, softly sucking and biting at the fluttering pulse beneath her jaw. “You seem to be feeling better.” She moans and arches her neck to provide his busy mouth with better access to her flesh.

 

He shifts his weight over hers and raises his head.

 

“Aye,” he agrees. “I’m feeling much rested,” he says and pushes the evidence of his rejuvenation against her belly, eliciting a moaning laugh from her.

 

He is torn. Part of him wants to unleash the pirate; to devour her in one greedy gulp. But another part wants to savor, to seduce.

 

Hard and fast can wait, he decides.

 

Levering up onto his elbows, he strokes the hair away from her face, spreading it over the pillows where it glints gold in the sunlight. A pirate’s treasure, he thinks whimsically, carding his fingers through it. Twining one thick, gleaming curl around his forefinger, he lowers his head and takes her mouth with his.

 

She sighs. Curls her arms and legs around him, binding him to her in a four-limbed embrace, drawing a moan from his throat as her body arches insistently against his. And, he decides, there are too many clothes between them.

 

He must mutter the thought aloud for she raises one hand from his back, and twirls it lazily through the air and suddenly there is nothing separating them. He blinks in surprise. Tosses his head back with a joyful laugh.

 

Then, with a low groan, slips within her, finally, at last, joining them as one.

 

She stares into his eyes and something in the air shifts. He can feel her magic reach out and bind them together with invisible tendrils and suddenly he can feel what she is feeling. Knows the hot, aching stretch of penetration; the blissful sense of fullness. Reflected in her eyes, he sees the same sense of wonder and knows she is experiencing the same communion. They are one in the truest sense of the word. And it is like nothing he has ever known before.

 

Wrapped up in one another, bathed in the sunlight sparkling through the windows, illuminated by her magic, they rock toward completion.

 

0o0o0

 

 

She imagines it can be all too easy to become addicted to using her talent. She had wrapped herself in her magic, wore it like armor, wielded it as a weapon; used it in every way she knew to retrieve Killian from the hell to which she had condemned him.

 

She had admittedly lost control of it when they had made love – but she cannot regret that. Experiencing his pleasure as well as her own was the most acutely intimate act of her life. She had opened to him – had shared a piece of herself with him – in a way she could never imagine doing with anyone else.

 

She has found her magic at times to be a burden; but now she knows that it is a _gift_.

 

But she wonders if she is becoming lazy. Relying on it not only for the extraordinary, but for the mundane.

 

It’s just… scrambled eggs and toast are one thing. Homemade chicken soup is most definitely out of her wheelhouse. She scowls at the recipe displayed on her phone. Glares at the empty pot on the stove. She mutters rationalizations to herself.

 

She does not want to leave him to go to the store to purchase the ingredients.

 

Nor does she want the intrusion of friends or family which would be part and parcel of calling them for a favor.

 

There is canned soup in the pantry.

 

But Killian is so thin, she reasons, and he needs to eat wholesome, nutritious food, which cannot be found in the over-processed, over-salted contents of a can.

 

She rolls her eyes at her mental gymnastics, closes them and concentrates and when she opens them again, the pot on the stove is full and the air is redolent with the scents of bubbling soup.

 

“Ha!” she crows and punches a fist into the air. “Can I cook, or what?”

 

“Ah, slaving away over a hot stove, are you now Swan?”

 

She turns her head and sees him lounging in the doorway, a familiar smirk painted on his lips.

 

Her face heats with an embarrassed blush. “How long have you been standing there?”

 

He grins by way of answer and instead sniffs the air. “Smells delicious. Who knew you were so talented in the kitchen?”

 

She wrinkles her nose. “Shut up,” she huffs in exasperated affection.

 

“Oi!” He claps a dramatic hand over his chest. “Is that anyway to repay a compliment?”

 

She plops a lid on the soup and lowers the flame to a simmer.

 

“It needs another hour,” she decrees (as if she hadn’t just poofed a fully cooked meal onto the stove). Tipping her nose up into the air, she sails past him and into the other room.

 

0o0o0

 

 

This is how they spend their time. They cocoon themselves inside their home. Though the calendar says that spring is just around the corner, winter is reluctant to release its icy grip. A fire crackles in the fireplaces of the living room and their bedroom.

 

They eat – Killian’s appetite is slowly returning. They while away long hours reading. They sprawl together on the sofa under a fleecy throw and whisper stories of their pasts, opening the good and the bad of their histories to one another.

 

They listen to music and she is not surprised to find her ancient pirate is drawn to classical symphonies, though he deems Elvis to be “quite a talented lad”.

 

They finally get around to watching Netflix and Killian is puzzled by the act of _binge-watching_ until Emma introduces him to a genre called sci-fi and then he stays awake all night, mesmerized by the original Leia blasting her way through the galaxy and falling in love with the arrogant space smuggler.

 

They make love. They cannot get enough of the other.  He is greedy for her and she cannot seem to stop touching him.

 

They sleep and sleep, curled together in the big comfortable bed.

 

They dream. And with each passing day and their strengthening connection, they come to learn that they often share their dreams. Which can be a blessing. Or a curse when the dream they share is a nightmare.

 

0o0o0

 

 

_“Now, love. End it.”_

_She shifts her grip on the sword and holding his eyes with her own, plunges it into his chest._

He lurches awake with a shout, a frantic hand rubbing over his chest. Hears her whimper in her sleep.

 

“Emma.” He jostles her shoulder, dragging her from the shared nightmare and she sits up with a gasp. She bolts from the bed and into the bathroom and though he can hear her retching, he stumbles in the other direction, pushing through the glass doors which lead to a small widow’s walk running along the back of the house. 

 

There is no moon and clouds block the stars. He cannot see the ocean, but he closes his eyes and strains to hear. Strains for the calm the sea provides. He listens to the incessant roll of the waves breaking against the shoreline, forces himself to breath in time with the sound and slowly finds that sense of calm returning.

 

And with its return comes the shame at having run from her. He turns to go back and finds her standing in the doorway, a forlorn look on her beautiful face.

 

“Forgive me, love,” he begins.

 

“Why don’t you hate me?” He can see the pained confusion etched on her features. “You should _hate_ me, Killian.  I hate me sometimes.”

 

“I did,” he admits. “I hated you at first for putting that _thing_ into me after I had struggled to rid myself of the villain I had been for so long.”

 

He is staring toward the water, his voice devoid of emotion and she flinches at the matter-of-factness of his words.

 

“You took my choice from me and I was _so_ angry.” He turns and braces his back against the railing. Shrugs and gifts her with a soft smile.

 

“But I can’t hate you, Emma. You were motivated by love and… well, the truth is, we haven’t been fair to you.”

 

His shoulders rise and fall on a long sigh.

 

“We – your parents, me, Regina… we’ve set you up to think that you can fix anything because you are the Savior. And I believe because we’ve always told you that, you thought you could manipulate and control the Darkness where no other Dark One could before.” He smiles sadly.

 

“But we forgot to allow for human frailty.”

 

A sob rises in her throat and she buries her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs because here, finally, is someone who understands the burden she has been carrying – to be perfect in her role as Savior. And that it should be Killian who understands, he who paid the ultimate price for her human errors, moves her in ways she simply cannot put into words.

 

He folds her into his arms.

 

“If the situation had been reversed, I have no doubt that I would have made the same choice, Emma. I am a selfish man and I know that I would have put the Darkness in you if it meant keeping you with me. And I would have done it without the belief that I could somehow make it right in the end. I would have been content to live with you as the Dark Ones forever and damn the consequences.”

 

His own tears roll unheeded down his cheeks.

 

“How can I condemn you for making the same choice I would have made?”

 

They stand out there, swaying back and forth in each other’s arms until the cold finally penetrates their thin clothing forcing them inside. He yanks the thick comforter off the bed and bundles them into it and they sink to the floor in front of the fireplace.

 

She lays back on the carpeted floor and he stretches out over her, drawing the comforter over their heads. They push away their clothing and she arches, drawing him deeply within her, and they sigh as they are joined body and soul.

 

“I’m tired,” she confesses. “Tired of the sadness and fear. Tired of the worry.”

 

“I know.” He bites his lip when she shifts and wraps a leg around him, causing him to sink ever deeper within her. “But this is what we fought for.” He pulls out and pushes back in, a long and lazy plunge into pleasure. “Our love, Emma. You and me. Here. Together. Building a life. This is our happy ending and they can’t have it.”

 

“No,” she agrees, hips rising to meet his. “We fought too hard for it. We won’t let anyone or anything take it from us.”

 

0o0o0

 

 

They spend the rest of night awake, talking, kissing, making love. She is sitting up, his head cradled in her lap as she sifts her fingers through his hair when she notices the fire is dying once again. She is too comfortable to move and so, with an easy flick of her wrist, sends the flames sparking upward once again. The light of the cheerfully crackling fire illuminates him and she sees an odd expression cross his face.

 

“Do you ever miss it?” she asks slowly.

 

He tips his head back to look at her. “The Darkness? No, I hated being that. But… the power?” His shoulders rise and fall on a sheepish shrug. “I’d be a bloody liar if I didn’t confess to enjoying having a touch of magic at my disposal.” He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s a bit of a let-down, innit? To be ordinary again.”

 

“You’re far from ordinary, Killian Jones.” She bends forward and presses a fierce kiss to his mouth. “You are a man redeemed. A villain turned hero who made the ultimate sacrifice to protect those he loves.” She threads her fingers through his hair, forcing him to meet her gaze when he would have looked away.

 

“Henry would say that you’re the thing legends are made of.”

 

He flushes and turns, burying his face against her breasts, shaking his head in automatic denial of her fiercely-whispered declaration.

 

“And you love me,” she says. “To me that’s magical. A miracle.”

 

“Do you know what hell is?” he finally asks.

 

“I’d say I’m pretty much an authority on it now,” she sighs, thinking of the quest she undertook to drag him back from the underworld.

 

“It’s not that,” he says quietly. “It’s not what the books would have you believe. It’s not brimstone and eternal damnation.” He sits up beside her and stares deeply into her eyes.

 

“Then what is it?” she asks.

 

“I don’t know what it is for others, but for me? Hell is the absence of you.”

 

Tears brim in her eyes, spilling over her lashes and he swipes them away with his thumb.

 

“I’m sorry I did that to you.” She’ll never be able to apologize enough. “So sorry I put you through that.”

 

“I would die for you a thousand times over,” he vows.

 

“And I would come for you each and every one of those times, Killian. You’re my happy-ever-after.

 

 

End


End file.
